


glory be to man

by KillerGirlFuria



Series: Random Fandom Word Vomit [5]
Category: Darksiders (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cuddling Cats as Coping Mechanism, Don't copy to another site, Everyone Has Issues, Friendship, Gen, Humanity won the Apocalypse War, Male-Female Friendship, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, She Has Issues, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Rivalry, Sir This Is My Emotional Support Horseman, Strife is Jones, The MC is a War Veteran, War, War flashbacks, he died but didn't, he was on Evelyn's hit squad, looking specifically at you Fanfic Pocket Library, or to any apps that steal our hard free work and unlawfully make money off it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:06:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22760698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KillerGirlFuria/pseuds/KillerGirlFuria
Summary: In another world where humanity banded together and bit back, and eventually won having subjugated Heaven and Hell and everything else, Evelyn Brown, a 47-year-old veteran commander in big part responsible for the victory, is trying to deal with her PTSD and re-adapting to civilian life after almost forty years of fighting, in a world torn by a century of war.And then a familiar face of a person who should be dead shows up, well and truly throwing her out of any and all equilibrium she managed to work out during her retirement.Oh, and apparently her house is a good place for Horsemen to stay at while they make sense of the new balance of powers in a world ruled by humans.
Relationships: Death & Fury (Darksiders), Death & Strife (Darksiders), Death & War (Darksiders), Fury & Strife (Darksiders), Fury & War (Darksiders), Original Female Character(s) & Strife (Darksiders), Strife & War (Darksiders)
Series: Random Fandom Word Vomit [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636369
Comments: 15
Kudos: 25





	glory be to man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an idea that's been stowing in my files for a year or even two now. There's only prologue, and there may never be more than just this. Or there might. I have no idea, to be honest.

0.

In the year zero, just after the outbreak, Humanity is scattered. So few survivors in so few places, it really seems like End Days. Survivors in Los Angeles have it the worst—because this is the city who got hit first, at least in Americas. Ninety percent of people of the area died within first five years. In ten years, all those who have survived have found a way to leave or were otherwise rescued, by powers that be or by other humans. Most of them were teenagers and adults at the time of the initial contact, hollow-eyed orphans who saw their loved ones die, oftentimes protecting them.

They hanged on by threads, fueled only by the words of the people they saw ripped to shreds in their stead; ‘ _please, live’_.

They did. They met other survivors, veterans, soldiers, fighters, opportunists. Nobody plays fair – everybody plays smart, but they very soon realize that greater power is in numbers. And so, the event that should’ve divided them to warring clans upon scorched earth, unites people regardless of anything they were before. Religion doesn’t matter—preachers die first, ripped to pieces by demons and angels alike, screeching about the end days as they go. Skin color, gender, past, their beliefs that fail to hold true in the face of the now—they all bleed red, they all lost something, they all want to live, and so, they all fight.

Twenty years after the outbreak, they have formed society stable enough to live comfortably and relatively safe enough to begin thinking about more than just survival. The children born after that are all trained in survival and combat first, and in everything else second. They cannot contribute to society if they die in their first contact with the outside world. They are the first ones brave enough to scavenge, to live on the outskirts. Many of them die—more still survive and learn.

Demons ignore them. Angels ridicule them.

Forty years after the outbreak, they’re finally ready to bite back. They bite so hard that three of the greatest demon lords fall within one year, one surprise nuclear attack on which every bet is placed, and it holds true, for all it depletes significantly what military might they managed to scavenge from lost military bases, and it puts fear of man into the holy and damned alike. For years after that they battle, guerilla first and then open war, and they fight, and take, and adapt beyond what they would have, or even should have. They appropriate demon magic and wield it against angels, they appropriate angel technology and use their weapons against demons. They expand what they had before with creativity they wouldn’t have been forced to in peace. They adapt, they learn, they recover. They push back.

They create tools of war unseen by either of the two enemy kingdoms ever before, remake old ones into deadlier, bigger and flashier versions, and they push back so hard, their enemies stagger, and for the first time since the demon commanders fell, they truly doubt.

Humans don’t discriminate. They are long since past discriminating among themselves, and even longer since past discriminating against who and what they kill in order to survive. Those who scorned and scoffed at them as nothing more than worms finally start to fear.

Fifty years after the outbreak, Evelyn Brown is born. Seven years later, she watches her mother ripped to shreds by an angel and a demon bulldozing their home in a fight.

This marks the beginning of the true end of Heaven and Hell.

Eighty years after the Apocalypse started, the only angels and demons remaining on Earth are prisoners of war, or those who sworn fealty to humans on their own volition. Evelyn Brown leads one of the first sieges against outposts of Heaven. For the first time, Humanity leaves Earth. They don’t go to stars, and they don’t go peacefully—they come with weapons and enhancements and so changed they are something more than they used to be, a long time ago that nobody remembers, but also somewhat something less for what they had to forget for the sake of survival.

Ninety years after the Apocalypse begun, The White City and The Capitol of the Damned fall in the same month. A year after, City of the Dead and Forge Lands swear fealty to Humankind. Five years after that, Evelyn Brown, Hero of Humanity, leads a siege against the Charred Council.

Ninety-seven years after the Endwar begun, it ends, with crushing victory of Humanity. They can finally step down from the war and try to recover what once was. A sense of normalcy, safety, maybe high culture. And Evelyn Brown, bitter, broken and decorated with more awards and titles than she cares for, retreats into self-imposed solitude to the very place where she swore to make Heaven and Hell pay forty years ago, to battle the demons and screams plaguing her dreams and peripheral vision on her own that she cannot simply shoot and kill.

But for all the demons she cannot kill, she killed dozens in fight. She will be hailed a hero of Humanity for centuries to come, and that’s fine. She played her part in giving back the childhood to the children so that theirs would never be ripped from them as she had hers. She is not well. World is not well. But it’s okay. She is human, and humans are versatile. She can heal.

Eventually.

* * *

It began suddenly, unexpectedly, in early March—rainy, cold, and overall unpleasant. It’s not even been two months ago since the Endwar ended for good, with a crushing victory of humanity, subjugating Heaven and Hell and everything over, under, and outside of it. Evelyn Brown attended the ceremony, a massive, worldwide event—for what was left of humanity, maybe a billion, much more than anticipated, really—a woman broken, but a genius commander of the machine of war that was the army of the third kingdom. She gave a short speech, unused to anything other than barking precise orders and keeping her soldiers alive and killing creatures that were supposed to be impossible to kill, suffered through having her jacket pinned with pounds worth of ornate medals, received some titles. Protector of the Realm, Hero of Humanity, The Bane of Supernatural and the like. She was a notorious killer of all things divine and damned, after all. The nightmare of theirs, like few before her, and the humanity loved her for it, for she, to them, meant victory, and safety, and the end of a century-long nightmare.

But above all, Evelyn was tired. So, after receiving all the honors, and enough resources to last her and next two generations, she retreated to what used, once upon a time, to be Oregon. A place she hailed from, like her family before her—to where ruins of a house once stood, where a young girl saw her mother ripped in half in a scuffle between an angel and a demon and vowed revenge upon the end times, and then kept her promise, saving millions with it.

The ruins were gone, of course, the house of her childhood, stained with the blood of her family who worked so hard for it, to build, to maintain, to live, since they first settled there four hundred years ago. There was a new house, kind of like the old one, but bigger, sturdier, newer. All hers.

All empty.

A big, lonely girl in a big, lonely house, with nothing but ghosts to keep her company.

The first cat is an accident—a pathetic, thin stray, spur of a moment decision. She meant to drop it off at the local vet and go her merry way—but then she looked at the thing, ginger, one-eyed and lost but still a fighter, and thought, _this one is mine_. The second one was a bit more calculated choice, but still qually as chaotic, only a few days later. Waiting for a checkup for her first stray, Evelyn took a walk through where the homeless pets were held, marveling at how humanity, such a cruel, savage race, so ill prepared to do anything else but war, still found time and dedication for such small acts of kindness towards those who couldn’t fight like them. She found herself staring at the ball of fur as brown as chocolate, and it stared right back with its glowing, orange eyes.

 _Take me home?_ it asked.

She did, coming home with two cats instead of one. They couldn’t speak, of course. But they demanded her attention anyway, and showered her with unconditional love she didn’t deserve—who said dogs were more affectionate was full of bullshit, by the way—and they didn’t judge when she broke down wailing like a wounded animal in the middle of doing something, or when she woke up in a cold sweat from another nightmare-memory-dream.

In a way, in her self-imposed solitude, they saved her. Just two cats who knew nothing of the horrors waiting, and one bitter, broken woman who has seen it all.

It wasn’t like she hated humanity, no, she fought for them, gave her everything for their survival and victory. But in worshipping her as a hero, they’ve forgotten she was just a human, too. A broken, bitter, simple human who couldn’t get a good night’s sleep, plagued by the screams of her dying or tortured subordinates, of her own when a demon took her hands from her, or the dread she felt forty years ago as a little girl hidden under the floorboards watching her mother reduced to nothing but torn flesh in a conflict that shouldn’t have been theirs.

The hands she had now were solid iron, cold and unfeeling. She didn’t feel the soft sheets with them, or the cat’s fur beneath her fingers. Her spine was encased in metal, too, her bones—filled with it. She wasn’t sure she was a human still, to be honest. She allowed for so many modifications to be done to her to become a more efficient fighter, a more efficient killer. So many chemicals entered her body to make her stronger, faster, less fallible, that now her bloodstream was little more than a toxic slurry glorified by its ability to carry oxygen all over.

And wasn’t it funny that that word—‘killer’—was a badge of pride for her, one of the few things that brought her joy and peace of mind? Her hands were dripping with blood of all the angels and demons she killed, the number counted in hundreds to others’ dozens, and that achievement was her legacy and a warning for the supernatural. A honor, to have been strong enough to have killed so many.

~~But not strong enough to save all those who needed saving.~~

For a Caucasian woman, or woman in general, she was tall—six feet, a bit over that even, all severity, muscle mass and enhancements. Her face, that once might’ve been pretty, was now a collage of scars framed by an ever-present frown, but free of wrinkles due to one-too-many battle enhancement meant to keep her at top shape no matter what. Her eyes were both gray once, up until she lost her right one and had to have it replaced with a mechanic, glowing prosthesis of metal, silicone, and glass. The right side of her face was now mostly an amalgamation of scar tissue and metal, and it wasn’t pretty. Her hair was chestnut brown, once upon a time, cut short. But now, the regrowing strands were generously peppered with gray and white streaks, the only thing betraying her true age—her body stopped aging long time ago, too much serum in a too critical situation. She still didn’t know the extent of the changes it had wrought—would she still live the estimated natural eighty-to-hundred years, or would she live longer for it? Or would she suddenly drop dead because of it in near future, her body failing her one final time for all the times it never did before?

Who knew. She didn’t care, because the war was won, and she had little else to occupy herself with but nightmares and memories and of survivor’s guilt, PTSD and depression rearing their ugly heads.

* * *

She is working in the field, preparing herself a garden bed despite the weather because March is the best time to start, or so she read, when she feels them, neither angel nor demon and also both at the same time. For a moment she’s confused, used to full auras and not mixed ones, but then it dawns on her, like a lightbulb above the head in those old cartoons she unabashedly indulges in. Their auras were odd, because they were neither—and both, at the same time. Halfbreeds.

And there were only four in existence.

Nephilim. The Horsemen. Here, now- Why?

She stands up, seemingly relaxed but there are at least five knives on her, and one gun, because old habits die hard and saved her life too many times to count, and she’s ready to grab them within a blink.

They ride onto the field on their demonic horses, and Evelyn can appreciate a beautiful animal. Fury, Evelyn has been told, had a new horse. Her previous one was killed, after eons they spent together. It must’ve been a hit. They look imposing, larger than human, more than human, while also simultaneously less. Evelyn can only think of one question; what do they want?

She remembers War, a man chained before the Charred Council when they marched on it, when they turned the stone faces and the beings within them into nothing more than a pile of rubble. She felt his power return with their end, saw him rip he chains off of himself. He looked at them then, her and what was left of the hit squad, bloodied and victorious. He was confused and lost, and he left just like that.

(She remembers the horse—Christa killed the demon who used to have it and rode the beast for the brief period of time, before releasing it. Trampled quite a few angels and demons with it, too. Evelyn should perhaps call her subordinate and tell her that the horse was fine—it would cheer Christa up during the painful and tedious rehabilitation based around relearning how to use her limbs after her original ones were ripped from her and had to be replaced with synthetic ones.

Christa promised to visit as soon as she’d be able, too. Evelyn missed what was left of her squad, but whatever of them survived had tedious rehabilitation processes to go through, or wanted to spend time with what was left of their families and friends outside of the squad.)

Fury, she never meet, but she heard of the woman. Sent to defeat Seven Sins and set up for failure by the council, she ended up as the guardian of whatever humans were left in Los Angeles and the area until other duties called her away. Evelyn’s grandfather was one of the people she saved and guarded, and she left quite an impression—he would hardly shut up once the topic reached Fury, back when Evelyn was a child that knew nothing of the world, what feels, and maybe is, a whole lifetime ago.

Fury had big shoes to fill to be the same Fury her grandfather idolized in Evelyn’s eyes.

Of Death and Strife, Evelyn knew very little. When War could be said to owe a debt to her, and Fury was rather friendly given her history, these two were absolute wildcards. Evelyn hated wildcards, for they ended with explosions and death and a lost eye.

Hence, her suspicions skyrocketed when it was Strife who approached her eventually, horse dismounted and left to charge into nothingness. Where they went when they weren’t needed, nobody knew – and Evelyn didn’t care, watching the Horseman approach, somewhat cautiously, while his siblings watched on. When she glanced at the remaining three, Fury was hissing at Death in a manner that reminded Evelyn of a squad member being scolded for a rather stupid idea.

“Well, that’s quite a company,” Evelyn asks finally, because Strife is close enough to speak normally, but visibly hesitates. Despite a full-body armor, she can sense his apprehension. Up close, the way he carries himself reminds her of one of her squad members—a daredevil idiot with the dumbest ideas who took a magic blast in her steed. She doubted the memory would ever not make her want to cry, so she forcibly pushes it away, despite the painful reminiscence.

“It is,” Strife answers, rather lamely. Despite his posture, he appears very nonthreatening—like a child before the parent, expecting a severe scolding, rather than a warrior who Heaven and Hell feared more than anything. Before humans, that is. And Evelyn had no clue as to why.

“Okay, look,” she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “What the actual fuck are the Horsemen doing in any vicinity of my humble abode? Somebody hire you to finish me off? Revenge quest? I did blow up your precious council, after all. Or do you want to test yourself against Earth’s mightiest? If so, fuck right off, I’m retired.”

“No, no, none of that! Never!” he yelps instantly, and almost outside of her peripheral vision, Evelyn sees Death sigh in exasperation. Again, whose idea it was to send Strife? Death was more imposing and Fury was very to-a-point—that, and she dealt with humans before. “We, uh, actually have something to ask you- Of you.”

“Ah?”

“Well, uh, maybe you could, I don’t know, let us stay here? For a moment? Until everything settles and we know where we stand in the new balance?”

Evelyn balked. The Horsemen staying with her? Here, in her house? In the middle of nowhere? She understood the appeal of the area, she really did, but—Why?

“I don’t know you, though. Any of you. Why would I let you stay?”

“Ah fuck it, we do know each other!” Strife explodes. “We do know each other quite well, and you’re going to kill me and this was stupid, and I wasn’t supposed to tell you, but- Just, let me, let me show you.”

Evelyn lets him—and he shifts, and so does his armor, vanishing and morphing, and his purple skin turs brown, and his ridiculous anime protagonist hair smooth down, his eyes suddenly brown and a goatee on his chin, and-

Oh.

“Jones?!” Evelyn gasps, something between shock, and happiness, and unchained boiling fury. Her mind bluescreens for a moment, because here stands this idiot with whom she traded banter and who she scolded and who played pranks on the squad to keep the spirits up in the darkest hour before their worst fight, who took a mortal hit for her and didn’t even get the courtesy of dying surrounded by friends because the squad had to move and keep moving and there was no time for sentiments in death-or-death situation—

She only realizes she’s hyperventilating when he—Jones—Strife— _what the fuck_?!—grabs her gently by the shoulders and eases her to sit on the ground, silently keeping vigil.

“Okay, not the greatest idea I’ve ever had,” Strife says in Jones’ voice, and by all that’s good in the world, he really is Jones, isn’t he? He really is alive, still, within hand’s reach? He won’t vanish when she reaches for him, like all the times before?

“You fucker,” Evelyn manages to choke out, and, oh, she’s crying, too, that’s why it’s so hard to breathe. “You absolute, stupidest, most ridiculous fucker,” she slams her head onto his chest, and just wails, the world around forgotten.

Because for the past few months Evelyn was all alone, with nothing but her cats to keep the darkness at bay, and now suddenly Jones—Strife, whatever, doesn’t it mean he’s always been the only Jones she’s ever known anyway?—is here, and alive, and other squad members will also want to hit him, and the thought makes Evelyn laugh through her tears.

Christa, in need of completely new limbs and few organs. Ollie, dead. Richard, dead. Elisha, with his mind in shambles after a psionic blast, slowly recovering. Patricia, catatonic after a blow to the skull, with doctors trying everything they have to revert it. Yelena, trying to find what’s left of her family that wasn’t eaten by the demons and fighting her own PTSD package. Jones, dead—or so she thought.

Her squad. Her precious people. Her only support net, now scattered to the winds, and yet a piece of it came back to her, and she’s not sure she’s willing to let go anymore, actually a Horseman or not.

She lost so much, so many people she grew to love over the years, and yet she never stopped making room in her heart for the new ones that came along, resigning herself to the pain of losing them instead of not getting to know them. Getting even one of them back feels like a miracle.

His siblings just watch on awkwardly, but Evelyn doesn’t even register they’re there. They don’t matter. Not now, not to her. She feels like a part of something heavy lifted from her chest.

Jones or Strife, it didn’t matter. Bald head and bushy goatee or smooth face and ridiculous gravity-defying hair, dark chocolate skin or purple skin, brown eyes or yellow, glowing ones—it didn’t matter. He was the same, utterly infuriating moron she fought and bled alongside. It was the same person regardless his true race or age or even name. It was the person she knew, and lost, and missed, and now he was back.

“Hey, boss, it’s alright,” he says, and for once in her life, Evelyn almost believes this statement. “I’m here, I’m back, I‘ve got you.”

“You,” she says slowly, when her throat is no longer trying to choke her on its own accord, “you have a lot of fucking explaining to do.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do. I’m so sorry, boss. I had my reasons. But I’m back now, see? I’m alive, I’m okay. I’m staying, if you’ll let me.”

He knows she will. She knows it too. But it’s fine. It’s a start. Maybe when she’s not alone, Evelyn will be able to collect the shattered pieces of herself and glue them back into a semblance of normalcy.


End file.
